


In the cold morning light, we found warmth

by momoejaku



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 02:18:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11198391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momoejaku/pseuds/momoejaku
Summary: For Tumblr's Batfam Week Day 1: Family





	In the cold morning light, we found warmth

Alfred Pennyworth runs his gloved forefinger over the smooth mantelpiece. It comes away clean as a whistle.

He nods to himself, satisfied, and gently tugs the glove off of his fingers, one by one, glancing over at the pale light that is seeping into the room with a contemplative look. He cracks open a window, letting in a cool, clean air that mingles with the lemon-scented smell of dusting spray and gives the living room, with all its Persian carpets, hanging paintings and ornate lamps, one last careful inspection.

It is spotless.

But Alfred’s work has just begun.

Pausing, he listens intently to the sound of a nearby mourning dove, its soft, sad cooing echoing into the crisp dawn light before he lets out a small breath and leaves the room to its lavish emptiness.  

In the kitchen, Alfred ties an apron around his waist and mentally mentally runs through the preparation steps for today’s breakfast, cracking eggs into a bowl as he waits for the water on the hob to boil.

Returning to work after a day off has always been welcomed. Although he finds himself able to relax on such days, wandering markets and attending local drama performances and the like, at the end of the day, Alfred finds productivity and accomplishment most easily measured in the simple chores that make up his daily routine.

Mellow jazz melts with a wavering French singer in a _chanson d'amour_ that Alfred hums along to as he trims asparagus. Today, breakfast will be taken by Bruce and Damian in the privacy of their bedrooms, he was informed by text yesterday. This does not surprise him after the events of the past week, the heated words that were exchanged, the bitter accusations, once again driving everyone away from one another, searching for solace in being alone, apart. The silence that Alfred had come back to early this morning was a silence that he was well accustomed to. The house and butler both having seen enough days of cold emptiness and tension to keep calm and carry on, shouldering the weight that permeated every room in the mansion.

Alfred is suddenly startled out of his thoughts, and frowns down at the black, purring creature that winds around his legs, looking for attention.

‘Master Damian has yet to make his appearance,’ he tells the cat with a raised eyebrow. ‘And this salmon is not for you.’

The cat simply blinks at him in response, continuing to mewl as the two Alfred’s have their stand-off. After a moment, the butler finally sighs and abandons any hope of training the feline to wait on its real master to feed him…

_Real._

His stomach clenches at the word even as it sticks to the back of his throat like a bitter liquorice.

It has been used in a variety of different ways by different children in the past. They use it to counter nightmares, a measure of reality; pivoting around the trauma of flashbacks and hallucinations as a comforting hand rubs the back and murmurs gently: _this isn’t real._  

It has been used in colloquialisms, in references to a puppet-boy controlled by strings that result in fits of laughter. It has been used in disbelief to question actions and cut through the smoke when a family member tries to hide something. It has been used to weigh authenticity, in a hushed whisper as little hands hold old, dusty first-editions or admire brushstrokes and smooth marble.

But there is one usage that always stabs Alfred in the back like a knife through unsuspecting flesh. Skin and sinew that is the result of a genetic code. Tests and blood samples and signed papers and angry tears streaming down faces as the words coming screaming out.

‘Et tu, Brute…’ he murmurs, scooping spoonfuls of gourmet cat-food from a can into Alfred the Cat’s bowl.

He returns to the hob to start on the hollandaise sauce.

Golden egg-yolks plop one-by-one into a bowl and are flooded with cream. He places the bowl over a pot of boiling water, his wrist whisking away in a practiced form to ensure the eggs do not curdle. A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth in wrinkles as he recalls the first time he tried to make this dish.

He remembers Martha Wayne practically breaking down on the kitchen floor in tears of laughter as Alfred had promptly chucked the eggs in the bin, his face flushed in a mixture of utter contempt and embarrassment.

The eggs had not been the only thing that curdled that day.

Alfred leans against the counter with a shaky breath, weariness washing over his body and bones in a sudden wave. It was not exactly a fond memory, but one that could be looked back upon with humour. A small chuckle that fades away prematurely to be replaced with the sad, stinging pain of times that can never be returned to. People that have been lost to this world and the cruelty that endures in it.

He returns to the recipe. A gentle flurry of practiced movements ending in cracked eggs poured into a whirlpool of vinegar-water, scooped out at just the precise time and placed to the side.

Alfred the Cat jumps up lithely onto the kitchen table and watches the butler place toasted muffins onto two plates before layering them with asparagus, smoked salmon, vegetarian ham and the poached eggs. The cat licks its nose as hollandaise sauce is poured generously over the plates and then garnished with finely chopped spring onion before being set on trays along with bowls of freshly cut fruit, orange juice and coffee.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Alfred carries the two trays in hand, balancing their weight against gravity easily, and the cat follows him up the stairs.

They reach the top, and Alfred sets one of the tests down lightly on a table next to a decorative Ming vase. He raps on the wood of Damian’s door gently with his knuckle and, receiving no answer, opens the door.

‘Master Damian?’ he says to the empty room, surveying the dim mustiness even as his heart sinks. He purses his lips and the worry tugs at every thought, capturing and consuming his mind at the sight of the bed, still made, clearly not-slept in.

Damian was not the only one to have run away. Others had done it far more than the boy ever had, leaving cold food and worried guardians in exchange for a backpack stuffed with books and essentials. It was an old means of escape. It was an escape that the children should never feel the need to make. And it had taken many, many long talks into the late hours of the dark nights to reassure them this was a safe-house. A place where you would never be in danger of being thrown out for opening your mouth too early, for messing up… for being a child.

And suddenly, Alfred has had it.

He abandons the tray next to Bruce’s in the hallway, setting it down roughly, the juice spilling over the glass even as he marches away to the master bedroom.

Alfred knocks, but does not hesitate to open the door and enter when he receives no response.

Not sparing the bed even a glance, he walks across the room and throws open the dusty curtains. Only then does he turn, opening his mouth to awaken the sleeping man he raised to be better with burning indifference, righteous anger overflowing in a deep, surging rush.

But the words fade away as quickly as they came. Little specks of dust float in the early morning rays of light, streaming in through clear windows as Alfred takes in the scene that lays before him.

Bruce lies in the middle of the bed, his arm tucked around Damian, hugging him close. But they are not the only two in the massive bed.

His eyes go to Dick next, snuggled up beside Damian, his head resting against the boy’s arm. Cassandra lies on the other side of Bruce, curled up in a foetal position to make room for Stephanie, who is taking up most of the covers and far too much of the other side. On the floor, laptop half-falling out of his lap, a forgotten, half-drunk mug of coffee dangerously close to his hand, Tim sits with his back pressed against the bed, head nodding occasionally.

And Alfred feels the fight run out of him like blood escaping from an open wound, his whole body releasing pent up fury and tension as he helplessly stands silhouetted by the window.

‘Somehow we all ended up in the same room last night,’ a voice speaks from behind Alfred.

Alfred turns around to find Jason, sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, a book propped open in his lap. He looks tired, messy hair shadowing dark circles and weary eyes, as he leans his head against the back of the chair. Jason's voice is strained, as if he has been yelling all night; and Alfred realises, he probably was.

With a small sigh, he goes to the chair beside him and sits down in it, looking over the undisturbed figures on the bed.

‘I presume you sorted through any anger harboured against one another, and all is forgiven?’ he says, quietly.

Jason considers Alfred’s words, a small scowl crossing his face.

‘Not all. But some.’

‘Some is better than none,’ the butler says approvingly.

They say nothing, time stretching out in a way that highlights the distance, the reeling pain that has been the past few years of mending what was lost. Years, stolen away from them that can never be returned. Can never be re-lived.

And then, in the silence, come the words.

‘We are a family… aren’t we, Alfie?’

Jason hesitates, his voice wavering in an insecure, unsure way that rends Alfred's heart in two as he continues. ‘I mean, this is what a _real_ family is meant to look like.’

Tears begins to form in the corner of Alfred’s eyes, and he makes no move to wipe them away. But if Jason notices, he does not say anything.

Alfred reaches out then, and takes Jason’s hand in his own, squeezing it tightly as they both gaze at the still figures on the bed. Their expressions peaceful, calm, lost in sleep and dreams and rest.

The warmth of one another’s bodies fighting against the cold remnants of night.

‘Yes, Jason,’ he says finally, his voice soft. ‘This is what a family is meant to look like.’

**Author's Note:**

> For Tumblr's Batfam Week Day 1: Family


End file.
